


Solitude

by Cornetto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Meetings, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:48:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22837315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cornetto/pseuds/Cornetto
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has been confined to a small house in the woods. In an effort to not actually die of boredom he decides to explore the nearby sleepy, coastal town. Here he meets John Watson.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a small disclaimer for ya: English is not my first language and I also have never written a fic before or anything remotely like it, and as such this could be complete and utter nonsense. Please let me know if that is the case. 
> 
> I have no clue how long this is going to be, but I reckon I have at least a few chapters up my sleeve. We'll see.

“Well, this is depressing,” mumbled Sherlock, looking at the house - if you could even call it that. It was more like a small hut surrounded by overgrown trees, the red bricks almost entirely covered in vines. The leaves were just on the verge of turning orange. _It must be autumn_ , Sherlock thought to himself, _early autumn, huh._

“I find it quite charming,” announced Mycroft to his left. They had just exited the car after a three hour car journey, having not spoken a word to each other the whole way, and they now found themselves in the woods somewhere far from London. Far from everything. Mycroft signalled for the driver to take Sherlock’s bags from the car boot. “Shall we?” he turned to Sherlock and gestured towards the house.

“Hateful,” said Sherlock, but made his way across the driveway towards the front door despite himself. 

—

“You can leave now, brother,” Sherlock said upon entering the living room _slash_ kitchen, the driver having dropped his bags off in the frankly claustrophobic hallway. “You’ve done what Mummy asked of you. What a good and dutiful son you are. Now leave.”

Mycroft sighed and took a seat on one of the dining chairs, left hand on the table, the right lying loosely fisted in his lap. Obviously not going to leave then. Sherlock kept to his spot in the doorway. Perhaps, if he didn’t make himself comfortable, Mycroft would realise he had no intention of having a conversation just now.

“Sherlock, you do understand why you are here, don’t you?” 

“Obviously.”

“I’d like to hear you say it.”

“I’m being punished.”

Mycroft sighed again, the knuckles of his right hand turning white. “Sherlock, this is for your own good.”

“My own good? I knew perfectly well what I was doing.”

“Overdosing does not imply you knew perfectly well what you were doing.”

“It was a miscalculation, Mycroft. I am not an addict and I am not suicidal.”

“Quite. Well, since you’re not an addict, then this will be no problem for you, I take it. I’ll come and check up on you every two weeks or so. See how you’re doing.”

“I assume I’m not supposed to go out foraging to tend for myself.”

“The homeowner will come by once a week with groceries. If you need anything more than that, there’s a village four miles down the main road from here and a bicycle in the shed.”

“And how do you know I won’t just go into town and procure cocaine?”

Mycroft smiled a sardonic smile. “I wish you good luck with that.” And with that he stood and walked up to Sherlock, who moved aside to let him out through the doorway, but Mycroft halted his step right in front of him. “If you won’t take this seriously for your own sake, then do it for Mummy’s. She is worried sick about you.” He coughed. “And I suppose, as am I.” Then he left, ducking his head to fit out the front door. “I will see you in two weeks, Sherlock,” he said just before closing the front with a small click.

Sherlock stood staring at the spot Mycroft had occupied for a minute until he was shaken from his reverie by the sound of the car taking off down the driveway. He took in the room he was stood in. The interior was just as hateful as the exterior. The walls all painted a colour somewhere between off-white and beige, and they were covered in small paintings. _Local artists painting the local sights and then proceeding to sell them to the locals. Hateful._

The kitchen had light blue cupboards and only the most essential appliances: refrigerator, stove and oven. Close by stood the dining table. It was small and only meant to seat two people but four mismatched chairs had been squeezed to fit around it. The living area at the other end of the room wasn’t much better off. Opposite a small television set was a light brown three seater sofa that was covered in pillows in various obnoxiously loud colours and a yellow blanket thrown over the arm of it. In the window hung small pieces of driftwood with seashells on string tied to it. _Ah, guess I’m at the seaside._ In front of said window stood a small table. Completely empty except for a red desk lamp. 

_I guess I might as well make myself at home_ , thought Sherlock and threw himself on the couch and closed his eyes.

—


	2. Chapter 2

It was dark when Sherlock woke up next, having fallen asleep on the couch. Rain was tapping on the window panes, and he could hear the wind tugging at the old structure. He righted himself to a sitting position and looked around the room again. In the dark, the room was more calm. The colours all around him not screamingly loud. Deciding he should probably unpack, he goes to the hallway to retrieve his bags: one duffel containing clothes, his violin case, and another duffel containing some of his lab equipment. _Thank God, Mycroft thought to have his minions pack something for me to do._

Taking only the bag with his lab equipment, Sherlock went to the desk, and unzipped it. He gently placed the microscope in the middle of the table along with a few Petri dishes. His experiment had been compromised. He’d have to start all over again. That’s five weeks of mould growth out the window. Well, at least that gave him something to do over the next few weeks. 

The rest of the bag’s contents he emptied out on the coffee table. Notebooks, a few bottles containing chemicals and a skull. Sherlock picked up the skull and placed it on the windowsill. _Ah Billy, good to see I haven’t been left entirely to my own devices._

— 

After a while of resetting the mould experiment, Sherlock felt his stomach rumble, and made his way to the refrigerator. While the fridge was fully stocked with various fresh produce and jars of jam, mustard and what not, there was even a single bottle of cheap beer, _someone must have left it behind,_ what caught Sherlock’s eye was a dish covered in tin foil. _Lasagne? Freshly made lasagne?_ The homeowner must have left it there for him when she - _and yes, it was a woman, obviously_ \- when she was here earlier to prepare the house for his arrival.

Grabbing a fork from the top drawer, he settled at the table with the full dish and tugged in, not bothering to reheat the thing. He saw no point in going to all the trouble simply to appease his _transport_. Ridiculous thing that he would have to abide by its rules, when he could be of so much more use, if he never had to think about basic needs such as food, visits to the toilet and _ugh_ sleep. 

He only made it through a few mouthfuls before replacing the dish in the refrigerator. 

—

It was another couple days before Sherlock got bored of exploring the house and surrounding area. Turns out the house was surrounded by several miles of woods. The next house down the road was a mile away and abandoned. 

Mycroft had really made an effort of exiling Sherlock this time. Of course, it was a futile effort. If Sherlock wanted to escape, he would do so. Mycroft was perfectly aware of this. Perhaps he shouldn’t escape, though, not yet anyway. He hated to admit it, but Mycroft was right. It would upset Mummy. But God, he was so _bored!_

University had been interesting for awhile. New people meant new information to explore, to deduce, to tear apart and put back together to find new meaning. But it only lasted so long before these new people turned out to be just as boring as everybody else he’d ever met. He hadn’t been able to stop his mind racing, and that’s when the drugs had come into the picture. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. _It still seemed like a good idea._

A cigarette. That’s what he needed. Just something to take the edge off. Of course, Mycroft’s minions wouldn’t think to pack those. 

He had to get out of there.

—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise these first two chapters have been quite short, and I will make an effort to post longer chapters from now on. Guess I'm just posting as soon as I feel I have anything to share that I'm somewhat happy with. 
> 
> I'm liking this so far, though. I like writing it, and I like sharing it. See ya around!


	3. Chapter 3

The chain was rusty and needed to be oiled. As did the front wheel, which gave off a loud squeak when he pulled the bicycle from the shed. It obviously hadn’t been in use for several years, but it worked adequately. Enough for a trip into town anyway.

_—_

Once in town, it didn’t take long for Sherlock to spot a garage. There was really only the high street that led down to the harbour. It was the late afternoon by now, people had just got off work, and yet the street was quiet, almost empty, except for three men stood outside a pub despite the biting wind. They were holding pints of beer. One of them had a cigarette. _Ah, that’s why they were outside. No smoking. Tedious._

Parking the bicycle outside the garage, he found the door had an ‘open’ sign in the window. Red neon. Next to it was a small timetable that stated the place closed at five. Just made it in time then. Inside sat a bored-looking teenager thumbing through some tabloid magazine and chewing on a sausage roll, he obviously hadn’t paid for. Sherlock first took a look around for some oil for the bicycle. Once in hand he made his way to the kid behind the counter.It was only when Sherlock stood right in front of him the kid looked up.

“Alright?”

Sherlock mentally rolled his eyes - perhaps physically as well - but managed to purchase the oil, a pack of cigarettes and a lighter nonetheless. Not his preferred brand, but he’d make do.

He stepped back out into the cold, pocketed the oil, and as soon as he heard the door of the garage close behind him, he opened the pack of cigarettes, knocked the bottom to his palm, freeing a couple, and fishing one out with his thumb and index finger. He put it to his lips and lit it, breathing in the sweet tang of tobacco. He smoked the entire cigarette down to the filter still standing right in the doorway.

Only after he’d lit a second cigarette did he start walking past the pub in the direction the pier.

The waves were high and the wind was stronger down there. He could smell the salt in the air. If possible the pier was even more abandoned than the high street. Seagulls were circling above the roaring waves, but otherwise not a soul to be seen.

Right down by the water was a chippy. He’d only had toast with jam since the lasagne two days ago. His stomach rumbled. _Traitor._

_Might as well grab something for dinner while I’m in town._

—

Bag of fish and chips in hand, he made his way back up the high street, only stopping to light another cigarette.

The men had vacated the area outside the pub. Probably made their way back inside, escaping the cold.

As Sherlock was stood there, the small bell above the door rang, and Sherlock saw a man stepping out, putting on his jacket as he goes. A short, black corduroy jacket that, despite its sherpa collar and interior, looked far too thin for this kind of weather. Once it was on he moved his hands to his pockets. _Knuckles red. Signs of a struggle perhaps?_ Sherlock wanted to have a look at his face. It’s always a lot easier to tell if someone’s been in a fight from their face. The man was bowing his head however, shielding his eyes from the wind.

As the man took off down the street, Sherlock made a decision to follow him. _I want a look at his face._ The man won’t have seen Sherlock, standing, as he was, in the shadows. Still, he waited for the man to turn at a corner to start his pursuit. The man’s gait was brisk and rapid, but his shorter stature meant it was easy for Sherlock to follow.

_—_

It was another 10 minutes of - what Sherlock thought was successful - surveillance later, when the man turned another corner along a tall fence. Sherlock waited half a minute before he deemed it safe to follow, but when he came around the corner he came to an abrupt stop. The man was standing right in front of him. Arms now crossed in front of his chest.

“Why _exactly_ are you following me?” The man said, surprisingly calm.

From this close up Sherlock could the man hadn’t been in a fight. Sherlock’s eyes ran across his face from top to bottom, scanning. The man’s hair was dirty blond. It’d been awhile since he’d had a haircut, the top now looking almost shaggy, and the sides just touching the rim of his ears. His eyebrows were knit, and there was a dangerous glint in his dark blue eyes. His nose was twitching. Sherlock could tell he was clenching his jaw, a small muscle group working where his jaw meets his ear. _All signs of anger. Why is he angry? Because I followed him? Right. People generally don’t like strangers following them. Why isn’t he scared, though? Isn’t that the typical response?_

Sherlock must have been staring, because the man cleared his throat, shifting his stance a bit. “Hello?” He waved a hand at Sherlock’s face.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I bet. Why are you following me?” The man was looking more annoyed by the second.

“I’m not… Well, I am. Um… It’s not what you think. I’m not going to hurt you,” Sherlock blurted out and mentally cringed. _Oh well done, Sherlock. Way to not seem suspicious._ He just wasn’t expecting to be caught short like this. _Get a grip._

“Okay. Then what are you going to do?”

Sherlock gave himself a second to think. There was no good reason for him to have followed the man. Telling the man Sherlock needed to see his face probably wasn’t going to go down well. _Think, Sherlock!_

“I need a handyman. My hot water tank’s been giving me trouble. Uh, I just moved into town. Don’t know anyone yet, but I saw you and thought perhaps you’d know someone.”

“Yeah, alright.”

“Alright?”

“I’ll take a look at it.”

Sherlock looked him up and down again. Taking in everything he could before coming to a conclusion: “You’re not a plumber.”

The man chuckled. “I’m not, but just trust me when I say I know this stuff. What’s the address?” The man was pulling a small notebook and a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket.

Sherlock gave him his name and address and watched the man’s eyebrows rise as he scribbled in his notebook and placed it back in his pocket.

“I can come by tomorrow afternoon, if you like.”

“Tomorrow’s good. Yes.”

“Okay, see you then, Sherlock.”

With that the man turned and left, leaving Sherlock to stare at his back.

It took Sherlock a second to realise he never got the man’s name.

Guess he’d have to go home and break the water tank.

—


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so I did intend to update this a lot sooner, but with everything going on, I suddenly got very busy at work. I’m one of the few people who isn’t cooped up at home throughout all this, instead I’ve been working insane hours, so there you go.
> 
> Anyway, here’s what I managed before all this, and I’m sure I will return to it, once Denmark begins slowly reopening in the coming weeks.
> 
> Hope you’re all well and stay safe.

It was early the next morning when Sherlock woke up to sunlight hitting him right in the face. The sun shone through the kitchen window. He must’ve fallen asleep on the sofa again last night. The whole room smelt of oily chips, the remnants of which still lay on the coffee table. 

The weather was the nicest it’d been in all the time he’d spent there.  Four days. Only four bloody days had passed. 

Sitting up he stretched his arms over his head, his back popping, sniffing he caught his own scent over the scent of the chips. He needed a shower. No surprise really, he had completely neglected showering and changing his clothes since leaving London. 

He grabbed the remaining duffle bag from the hallway and made for the bathroom, quickly searching through the bag for his toiletries, divesting himself of his suit and entering the shower. As soon as he felt the hot water spray down his back he remembered his encounter with the man from the pub yesterday. The hot water tank. Right.

— 

Sherlock was stood in front of the hot water tank, his hair still damp and a towel around his waist. It looked rather simple really. The tank itself, a big cylindrical container. Three pipes extended from it, most likely incoming cold water, outgoing warm water, and a vent. On the tank was a small thermometer, currently set to 60 degrees Celsius. All as it should be. Now how to break it and make it look like an accident?

Obvious way would be to just make a leak on the tank. Smash a hammer against it. A small leak could be fixed quickly enough, but surely he wouldn’t have needed help to do that. A bigger leak might require an entirely new tank, but Sherlock didn’t really feel like spending the money. 

Maybe if he just loosened one of the pipes slightly.

Having spotted a toolbox in the shed yesterday when getting the bicycle out, Sherlock quickly dressed in a brand new grey shirt and dark jeans, and went to retrieve it. Jeans and button down shirts were not what he’d normally wear under any circumstances, but obviously Mycroft did not care.  Ugh, jeans? Really?

Taking out a spanner, he started loosening one of the pipes. Only a little bit. Just enough for a small leak. 

This proved to not be as easy as Sherlock thought it would be. The old pipes were tight, and he had to put some of his weight into turning the spanner. This, along with the pressure inside the pipe, lead to the pipe coming of entirely and water spraying out.  Bugger.

Sherlock quickly closed the door before getting drenched himself. He went to the kitchen and found the stop valve, turning off the water supply. This definitely wasn’t what he had intended. 

After a short while he could no longer hear the water spraying in the airing cupboard, so he went back to work, trying to reattach the pipe, but as he was doing this, a thought occurred to him. He had never actually had a proper look at a water tank before. Perhaps now was the perfect time. 

—

It was a couple hours later, when he was sat at the kitchen table, hands folded under his chin, he heard a car in the driveway. Turning in his seat he looked out as a dark green car came to a stop outside.  A used off road type vehicle. No telling the brand from here, but definitely a 4x4. Out stepped the man from the pub taking in the house and the surrounding trees same way Sherlock did just a few days ago. 

The man was wearing a worn pair of jeans and the same black corduroy jacket as yesterday, his hair was a much lighter shade of blond than yesterday when it had been all matted to his forehead with rain. Instead a mild breeze was running through it now, and the sun was reflecting in it. Sunlight suited him.

Quickly looking away, Sherlock took in the room. It was looking tidy enough. Only the desk with his experiments looked a bit busy. Acceptable.

Before he could investigate the room more closely, there was a knock at the door.

—


End file.
